Subvergent
by pheonixfeather94
Summary: A psychological revolution; a divergence, told through the eyes of a fearless. Four/Tris.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"It's not how many times you've been knocked down  
It's how many times you get back up

Courage is when you're afraid  
Courage is when it all seems gray  
Courage is when you've lost your way  
But you find your strength anyway."

– "Courage Is", The Strange Familiar

Max's office is small, dark and dingy. A solid wood dining table that's been sawed in half serves as his desk. A lantern roughly the size of my fist hangs above a metal folding chair, lighting the entire space with ease. I press back against the rough wall, as close to the door as possible, and let my muscles go slack in an attempt to appear nonchalant. There are five of us crammed into the room, and the closeness makes the back of my neck prickle. I doubt Max just by himself fits very comfortably on an everyday basis.

Eric sidles up next to me, and I stiffen, shooting him a glance out of the corner of my eye.

"Maybe we should change your name to One, now," he sneers, his eyes catching the light and glinting. "What do you say, Stiff?"

Gritting my teeth, I push myself from the wall and take a step forward, getting as close as I can to Max's desk. He only means to get a rise out of me, but he also succeeds in reminding me why I'm there, standing in this miniscule room: I am number one. Out of all the initiates, Dauntless-born and transfer, I am ranked the first.

Number-one ranked Dauntless initiates do not cower in the back of the room because of some stupid fear. I clench my hands into fists, willing my palms to stop sweating and my breath to stay even, and turn to glare at Eric, who has stepped up next to me, smirking.

"Sounds good to me," I say. "As long as you're okay with people calling you Two."

To my satisfaction, the smug look on his face melts instantly, replaced by a glower.

Lauren, on my other side, elbows me. "Ever heard the term, 'hole in the wall'?"

We both snort at the irony, and I glace around, thankful that she's able to help diffuse some of my tension. As a Candor transfer, her perceptive skills are impressively honed. I catch her eye as Max edges into the room, and she winks at me. I guess she hasn't completely given up her notions of wanting to be with me.

"You all know why you're here," Max says gruffly. He's never been one for beating around the bush. "So let's get started. Four?"

My pulse quickens and jumps to my throat. I clench and unclench my fists again, trying to inconspicuously wipe off some of the sweat that has rapidly accumulated there in the last three seconds. All beginnings of ease I had felt from Lauren's ribbing are abruptly gone, replaced my an angry swarm of butterflies.

This is the part I am not looking forward to. Everyone expects me to step up and take my position as a leader—the position that is rightfully mine. Everyone expects me to assimilate into the circle of faction leaders, to take on projects and committees. To face my father in the council meetings. To prove my strength as a member of the Dauntless.

I square my shoulders and meet Max's eyes straight on. I feel the words gathering in the back of my throat, bubbling up—_I choose to be a Leader._

And, for a split second, I almost do.

But then I swallow, and try my best to hide the disappointment. The disappointment I feel in myself, and in my father and in my broken excuse for a family. My gaze wavers only slightly.

"I would like to be placed in the control rooms."

I hear Eric's snicker, and the back of my neck burns with embarrassment. I can't even look at Lauren, though I feel her eyes searching my face, probing, reading me like an open book. She doesn't know about my father, doesn't even know my real name, but she's smart enough to figure it out. Someday.

If Max is at all surprised, he doesn't show it. He nods once, and leans over to scribble something on a sheet of paper. He hands me a small slip.

"This is your access code to the control center. You will be expected to report at six o'clock tomorrow morning for orientation and training. You are dismissed."

I fold the slip of paper and try to steady my fingers as I slide it into my pocket.

One thing my father taught me was to always have a way out. I had talked myself into believing that being in the control rooms would be that way out. But now, it just feels like hiding, another closet to squeeze into.

When Max calls my name and holds out his hand to shake mine, I can hardly look him in the eye.

* * *

Four of us make our way up to the tattoo parlor later that night. Zeke calls it a "celebration". I hang back while the other three saunter their way up to Tori and Bud's, shoving each other lightly and bantering back and forth. Lauren glances back at me too many times to count, but I ignore her. I'm not interested in a relationship, I've told her that. But it doesn't seem to faze her, or keep her from trying.

There are only three chairs in the parlor, and I volunteer to go last. I wander around the room, searching the walls halfheartedly to find something that stands out to me. It takes a while for Zeke, Shauna and Lauren to finish, and by the time they're done, their celebratory moods have been somewhat subdued by tiredness.

"Go on down," I say, nodding in the general direction of the dorms. "I'll be down later."

Zeke and Lauren offer to stay with me, but it doesn't take a lot of prodding to get them to go on ahead. Bud leaves with them, and then it's just me and Tori.

I pull off my shirt while she cleans up one of the tables and gets her gun ready. I'm no stranger to ink; my entire back is covered in it, one faction's symbol blending into the other in an intricate maze of societal paradox that spans from my shoulder blades to my hip bones, Dauntless flames spreading to encompass my right ribcage. Tori said it was the largest and most complex that she'd ever done. That time, though, I'd had a motive for the ink.

Tori returns with a fresh needle and a pair of powdery white latex gloves. Wordlessly, I pass her the slip of paper that holds the access codes to the control center. I've kept it, folded in fourths, in the palm of my hand for the last two hours, and it's now damp with sweat. Tori's dark eyes roam over the numbers, and she looks up at me, her face carefully blank.

"Well?" she prompts.

I just shrug. "I don't really care."

I let my eyes fall close, and I feel her stare burning into the other sides of my eyelids. A few moments pass before she starts moving.

Her cold, gloved fingers tilt my chin up and to the right, exposing the left side of my neck. I feel the swab of antiseptic, hear the click of an ink bottle into place, and then the buzzing tip of a needle touches my skin, just below my hairline.

When she's finished, I cross the room to the mirror that hangs on the wall. I don't think I'll ever get over my discomfort with seeing my reflection, but I clench my jaw and face it. Tori peers from over my shoulder, waiting for my response. At first I don't see it, but then, as I turn my head just the slightest bit to my right, the tip of a tail appears under my left ear. I turn farther, and the winding body of a serpent begins to take form, mouth open and teeth sunken into my spinal column, tail wrapped around my earlobe. Too many things flash through my mind. The serpentine body of a belt straightening taut as it makes contact with my shoulder, my arm, my chest. My father's hissing voice, _This is for your own good_. The slimy, slithering form of my dead brother as he slides from between my hemorrhaging mother's legs.

I turn to face Tori, eyes burning with the effort it takes to hold in tears. She very carefully begins disassembling her gun, laying the pieces out on a white rag.

"You're going to get that son of a bitch, Tobias," she says softly, without looking at me. "You're going to get him. I promise you."

* * *

The offer comes six months after my formal initiation. I'm on the night crew, halfway dozing at my station, feet propped up on the desk, when Max barges in. I don't even have time to stand up before the words are out of his mouth—_We need a new trainer for the initiates. You up for it?_

I blink up at him through my grogginess, one huge hulking piece of muscle outlined by the bright lights flooding in from the corridor. The Dauntless in me speaks up without hesitation.

"Absolutely."


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

I don't sleep well at all the night before the Choosing Ceremony. I am the last one in the apartments that night, and the first one up the next morning. It's nothing out of the ordinary, though; I've suffered from insomnia since long before I ever made my Choice.

By five o'clock in the morning, I've done as much tossing and turning as I care to do. Without bothering to shower—where I'm going, I'll only be getting dirtier—I throw on a pair of jeans and one of an innumerable amount of black t-shirts. There are a couple of people beginning to mill about, mainly cooks and janitorial staff. Once upon a time, in another place and another life, I would've gone to them, dutifully wiped down tables and set utensils and scrambled eggs. Now, it is my prerogative; I walk by without a second glance.

I grip the syringe in my hand just a little bit tighter, and take the stairs just a little bit faster.

* * *

I spend more time in the landscape room than I care to admit, and by the time I emerge from my apartment, freshly showered and clad in clean clothes, there is already a crowd beginning to assemble down in the pit around the net. I slip through the people easily and take my place at the front of the group, up on the platform. The few gathered behind me are the ones that are sober, but I can hear the crowd of inebriated making their way raucously down the corridor. Lauren takes a spot next to me, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed. If I didn't know her better, I'd say she was already buzzed. But Lauren doesn't drink, never has; it's the pure excitement of new initiates that intoxicates her.

I feel the train before I hear it, and out of habit, tense up, bouncing on the balls of my feet. My heart pounds in rhythm with the clanking of the tracks; I feel the adrenaline fill my chest, expanding my lungs as it rumbles overhead. It is gone as quickly as it came, and I'm left out of breath, with a beating pulse.

A shadow falls over the net from above, and the crowd goes absolutely silent. Some like to listen for screamers, others want to pay attention for the silent ones. I remember that same jump that I took, two years ago now, with my heart in my throat, on the edge of consciousness. I had volunteered to go first so that the others' screams wouldn't psyche me out. I didn't even know the meaning of heights then, and I was still terrified of them.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of gray. I feel my eyes go wide as I step forward, validating what I thought I saw. A jumble of Abnegation linen lies in the middle of the net, chest heaving, staring straight up from where it came. My hand shoots out automatically, and when I feel the grasp from the other end, I know it's a girl—even more shocking. An abnegation _girl _volunteering to jump first. An abnegation girl who fell _silently_.

She rolls towards me, off the edge of the net, and I catch her easily. She's slight, petite; it's hard to believe she's sixteen. She looks more like ten. I set her down and notice that she's only in an undershirt and pants. I don't have time to process how unusual this is for an Abnegation, however, before my eyes land on her face and I'm in for another shock.

I know those gray-blue eyes, that long, slender nose, the sharp planes of her cheekbones and jaw.

This is the daughter of Andrew Prior, one of the Abnegation leaders.

Lauren speaks before I do. "Can't believe it," she says. "A Stiff, the first to jump? Unheard of."

She's teasing the girl, exaggerating. I was, after all, the first to jump in my class. A class that she just happened to be in as well. Her comment hits me hard, though, and I bristle. I was a Stiff. A lot of my instinctual tendencies are still Abnegation. But she still wanted to be with me, despite that.

"There's a reason why she left them," I say, without looking back at Lauren. There has to be a reason. Good little Abnegation girls don't just run off and leave their families, especially when their families are like the Priors. When they're like the Eatons, though—that's a different story.

"What's your name?" I ask, because I can tell that she doesn't know who I am—yet—and because even though I recognize her by her face, I'm not sure of it myself. Something with a 'B', I think.

"Um..." She hesitates for a moment, looking around. I can relate; when I first arrived, Tobias didn't sound very Dauntless, either. The Abnegation have a gift for branding their children with ridiculous names. I couldn't think of any alternates, though, and any derivation of my given name sounded just as stupid. Now, I doubt if anyone besides my three closest friends remembers my real name. I am Four, the Fearless.

A little voice in the back of my head snorts. _Yeah, right_.

"Think about it," I urge. "You don't get to pick again." Oh, but sometimes others pick for you. I smile wryly.

The girl's shoulders straighten, and she stands taller, bringing the top of her head almost to my chin. Her jaw tightens, eyes flashing in the dim light, and I can see suddenly why she chose Dauntless. She belongs here. I wonder how her parents reacted to the news.

"Tris," she says firmly, and I remember her name with a jolt. _Beatrice._

"Tris." I can hear the grin in Lauren's voice. She approves of our bold new initiate. "Make the announcement, Four."

I turn and face the rest of my faction. "First jumper!" I shout, my voice ringing clear and loud. "Tris!"

Cheering erupts in the crowd, morphing into laughter as a screamer lands in the net behind me. I look down at the girl by my side, arms bare, who is staring out at her new people in awe. I feel a rush, the same one I get when I jump from the train, or run down the path from the top of the cavern, the same rush that makes me think I just might be Dauntless, after all.

I drop a hand down to her back, feeling ribs and vertebrae beneath a layer of warm skin under my fingers. She looks up at me, eyes wild, and the rush gets stronger.

"Welcome to Dauntless."

* * *

The dining hall is more crowded than usual. Not everyone eats there on a daily basis—a lot of people choose to eat in their apartments, actually—but on the night of the Choosing Ceremony, the vast majority of the faction gather together to welcome our new initiates. My group of transfers heads over to a fairly empty table in the corner, and I follow. I'm not required to eat with them; I know Lauren won't eat with hers. Something inside me would feel guilty, though, for just leaving them to figure it out on their own, on their first night in a strange new place.

We sit, and the Abnegation girl—Tris, I remind myself—prods cautiously at a hamburger on the plate in front of her. I grin, remembering the first time I'd eaten one. I still can't bring myself to stomach them.

"It's beef," I say, and pass her a bowl of ketchup. "Put this on it." The tomato sauce may help it taste better, but I can't stand the feeling of crumbled hamburger sliding down my throat. Just thinking about it makes me want to gag.

The girl across from Tris, Christina, the Candor transfer, stares at her with wide eyes. "You've never had a hamburger before?" she asks.

Tris looks down at her plate, eying the patty with something close to distaste. "No. Is that what it's called?"

"Stiffs eat plain food," I tell Christina simply. I glance down at my own plate and realize the irony of what I just said. There's a plain chicken breast, an un-buttered dinner roll, a mountain of mashed potatoes—no gravy—and a small pile of corn. I grab a bowl of barbeque sauce, and douse the whole plate.

She turns her still-wide eyes back to Tris. "Why?"

I listen silently to Tris's explanation of the Abnegation distaste for self-indulgence. I wince as I hear her say the word, and realize that it's become taboo in my head, the vilest of profanities.

Christina snorts. "No wonder you left," she says.

I can practically hear Tris rolling her eyes. "Yeah. It was just because of the food."

Another proof that she doesn't belong in Abnegation: they have no regard for sarcasm. I feel myself smiling at her words, but they make the curiosity simmer deep inside of me. What _did _she leave for?

Suddenly, I hear the creak of the dining hall doors opening, and the room goes silent. I know without looking that it must be Eric, even before I hear the telltale pattern of his footsteps. No other person would cause such a reaction.

I hear Christina hiss over at Tris, asking her who it is, and I almost laugh. Like she would know any more than Christina.

"His name is Eric," I say, my voice unusually loud in the silence. How stupid, I think, for an entire faction to be so intimidated by an eighteen-year-old with a face full of metal. "He's a Dauntless leader."

"Seriously?" The girl's eyes seem to stay perpetually wide. "But he's so young."

I frown. "Age doesn't matter here." I don't tell them what does. They'll find out soon enough, I'm sure.

I feel Eric's eyes on me, and hear the direction of his footsteps change. I let out a sigh; just because he doesn't scare me doesn't mean that I want to interact with him any more than necessary. Eric drops down into the seat next to me, and begins eating without a word. I know he expects me to speak up, introduce him, clamor to answer his unspoken questions, so I do the exact opposite.

Sure enough, after a few seconds of silence, he asks, "Well aren't you going to introduce me?"

Refraining from rolling my eyes is difficult. But he is my superior now; I enabled that to happen when I stepped down. "This is Tris and Christina."

He smirks at Tris. "Ooh, a Stiff," he goads, stating the obvious. The urge to roll my eyes now is definitely stronger, coupled with the urge to punch him and just get it over with. Maybe if he were unconscious, he'd shut up.

"We'll see how long you last," he says, and his words cause the same bristling inside of me that Lauren's did on the platform. I curl my hands into fists around my utensils and cross my legs under the table to keep from kicking him across the room. I see Tris's nostrils flare, and part of me is soothed a little. At least I know she's not going to lie down and take his crap.

"What have you been up to, Four?" Eric asks suddenly, and I am so taken aback that a few seconds pass before I answer.

"Nothing, really." I shrug a shoulder, trying to seem nonchalant, even though I'm back on edge. Why does he care what I've been up to?

I don't have to wait long for the bomb to drop.

"Max tells me he keeps trying to meet up with you, and you don't show up."

I stiffen, expecting the next sentence.

"He requested that I find out what's going on with you."

What's going on with me? Perhaps he means to ask me why I don't have any interest in joining their savage little cult.

I just look at him. "Tell him that I am satisfied with the position I currently hold."

Eric's eyebrows jump up to his greasy hairline, and I feel a moment of smug satisfaction that Max didn't disclose the purpose behind his question.

"So he wants to give you a job."

It is flat, emotionless, inflection-less. Thoroughly pissed off. I have to work hard to hold back a snicker.

"So it would seem," I reply, even though his words aren't really phrased as a question.

"And you aren't interested." Am I the only one who hears the sadistic humor in his voice?

I feel a flash of impatience. He knows damn well I'm not interested in any leadership position. Not now, not two years ago, not ever. Not at the rate this leadership is deteriorating. I don't want my name on any part of it.

I give him what he wants to hear, though, because the girls are staring at me and it might be perceived as rude to just flip him the bird, especially in front of them. Especially with the whole "faction before blood" thing.

"I haven't been interested for two years." It's the best I can do, the happy medium between bending to his will and telling him to piss the hell off.

Eric claps me on the shoulder just a little too harshly, and I see the arrogance return to his stance as he gets up.

"Well," he says. "Let's hope he gets the point."

He's not talking about Max. He's talking about me. Let's hope _I_ get the point. Let's hope I get the point that I'm not the leader, never will be, and he is. I glare at his retreating back, wishing that just once, Tori would shoot one of those piercings in far enough to actually do some damage.

"Are you two...friends?" Tris asks as he walks away.

I almost snort. Friends? Hell no. A memory flashes through my mind: Eric on the floor of the arena, bloodied, bruised, unconscious, my knuckles split open as I pound into his face, his chest, his stomach, any part of his body that I can reach.

"Were were in the same initiate class," I hedge. "He transferred from Erudite."

Something in my voice must give away my inbred Abnegation dislike of Erudite, because Tris frowns.

"Were you a transfer too?"

"I thought I would only have trouble with the Candor asking questions," I snap. It's none of their business whether or not I transferred. None of them need to know what I came from. "Now I've got Stiffs too?"

I don't know why I expected her to back down; all evidence from this evening suggested the contrary. "It must be because you're so approachable. You know. Like a bed of nails."

That pulls me up short. She's not hurt, I can tell. Just irritated. She meets my gaze levelly, not backing down, and I see a spark in those cool blue eyes. The frustration I felt begins to melt away, leaving curiosity in it's wake. Who is this Abnegation runaway, the one with so much life and spark? How the hell was it that she was never crushed where she came from?

Heat rises in her cheeks, two swelling pools of life, and I break away from her stare to follow them spread across her face. I see myself in her quick temper, her sharp wit, and I wonder what it is she's running from. I wonder what she'll see in her landscape.

"Careful, Tris," I say softly, because sitting there under the harsh light of the dining hall, cheeks stained pink, she looks so small and delicate. Heartbreakingly beautiful and pure in this cavernous place of obscurity and darkness.

* * *

I'm making my way to the front of the dining hall to throw away my trash when Eric catches me again.

"I don't know if Harrison told you or not," he says by way of greeting. "But I'll be escorting the initiates to the dorms tonight. We thought it would be a good idea for one of us to do it, so that we could give them a little bit of background on the faction."

I raise an eyebrow. Background on the faction my ass. More like brainwash them before they have a chance to even get unpacked.

"Harrison didn't tell me," I say slowly, looking over to the man in question. He's sitting at the leaders' table, in a lively discussion with Max and Ruthe, another of the leaders.

Eric follows my gaze. "It was a last minute decision." His voice is hard.

I glance over at him, eyes narrowing. Something about this doesn't feel right. Just thinking about leaving nine transfer initiates alone with Eric on their first night in the compound makes my insides squirm. I try to search out Lauren in the crowd, but I don't find her.

"Lauren already took her group ahead," Eric says, as if he can read my mind. "Hers don't require quite the same kind of attention as yours do." He tries out a smile, but on him, it ends up looking more like a sneer.

My eyes move back to where I left Tris and Christina, at the table in the corner. At some point during the meal, two more transfer boys were added to the mix. Now, they all seem to be chatting contentedly.

"I think I'll go along," I say, trying to keep my voice light, free of accusation. "Just for the hell of it."

I try to edge around him, but he pulls himself up to his full height, blocking my way. I stiffen, and then mirror his stance. As much as I hate it, he stands just an inch or two taller than me.

It's the boots, I tell myself.

His eyes are flint, but I don't back down.

"I think, _Tobias_," he hisses, putting extra emphasis on my given name, "that it would be wise of you to return to your apartment. I'll take the initiates from here."

I may hate him, but not enough to get thrown out of my faction. My jaw clenches with the effort it takes to restrain myself.

"Fine." A single syllable, spit through gritted teeth is all I have to say to him.

He backs off, smirking and satisfied, and I push past him, blood pounding in my ears.

I guess I have nowhere to go now but home.

I take the extra long way back to the apartments in hopes of walking off some anger, making almost a complete circle around the pit. By the time I get back to the complex, my anger is gone, but it has been replaced by fatigue, a result of my nearly sleepless night last night. I pull off my clothes in the dark and fall in to bed. I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"_Give me love like never before,  
'cause lately I've been craving more,  
And it's been a while but I still feel the same,  
Maybe I should let you go."_

_-"Give Me Love", Ed Sheeran_

I wake the next morning, early as usual, but this time it's was for a reason. Lauren and I had decided to meet for breakfast, to decide what kind of training we were going to start the initiates off with. We had a general plan, of course, but the number of initiates and their personalities—what vague sense of them we could get over dinner, anyway—dictated what training exercise we did first.

I arrive at the dining hall a good fifteen minutes before Lauren. Where I'm an insomniac, hardly ever getting more than three or four hours of sleep a night, Lauren could sleep days on end. When she finally shows up, shuffling through the doors in sweats, dark hair piled on top of her head, I'm halfway through my short stack of pancakes.

She plops down heavily in front of me, and I raise an eyebrow at her as she yawns a greeting.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," I chortle.

She responds with one finger.

"Remind me again why anyone would ever want to be up so God-awful early?" She snags a piece of bacon from my plate, but I snatch it back before she can bite off of it. I hate other people touching my food, something she knows good and well.

"Remind me again why anyone would ever want to waste their life away in bed?" I counter.

"Don't be bitter just because you can't sleep like a normal person. Do you think that guy over there would go get me some oatmeal if I smiled pretty?" She crans her neck to look around me at the maintenance man walking in our direction.

I roll my eyes. "For God's sake, Lauren." I push myself back from the table and stalk off towards the serving counter, already irritated. For a Candor-Dauntless transfer, she sure likes to be coddled. It was for that very reason that I turned her down two years ago. I don't do coddling. But even more than that, I don't do being embarrassed by my friends before it even hits eight o'clock, which would've happened if she'd tried to cajole that poor man to getting her food.

I half toss the steaming bowl of oatmeal at her when I get back to the table. It skids across to her, and she barely catches it before it tumbles to the ground.

"I would _not_ have gotten you another bowl," I say, scowling when I realize that my banana has a bite out of it that clearly wasn't left by me.

Lauren pushes her bottom lip out in a pout. "Poor baby," she mocks. "You had to walk all the way up there and all the way back. A whole ten feet."

I calmly cut the part of my banana off that touched her mouth, and continue to eat it. "I'm not above telling a girl to go fuck herself, Lauren."

She snorts. "Somebody's nice quota sure got used up quick today. Or did you just leave the other half next to your bed, with your big boy panties?"

"I expended it all on my early morning trek to get a very ungrateful friend her damn oatmeal."

"Whatever." She sticks her tongue out at me, and I shake my head.

"This is why we had to meet so early," I tell her. "Because you act like a five year old. With any other person, I would've already had the details nailed down and would be on my way down to the arena."

She rolls her eyes, but it seems to kick-start her in to action.

"I was thinking we could flip-flop again like we did last year. You can either have the guns or the bags first, and I'll take the other."

I mentally roll over my nine transfers' faces. I've got several big ones this year, which means it would be better to have the guns first. The last thing I need this morning is half my group in the infirmary from misplaced kicks or fists. Besides, fighting is something that can me improvised. It's rather difficult to improvise with a gun.

"I'll take the guns," I decide.

There's a little voice in the back of my head that I'm trying to ignore, telling me another reason why I want to get the guns over with.

Lauren nods. "Cool." She has it easy, either way. All of her initiates are familiar with weapons and fighting. They grew up around them.

Around seven thirty, the dining hall begins filling up, and I excuse myself to go start prepping the room. I set nine targets against the short wall, and rub a line of chalk into the concrete floor about five feet in front of the opposite wall. I save the guns for last.

When there's absolutely nothing left to do but load the ammo, I take a deep breath and head towards the cabinets. It's not the guns themselves that I have issues with, just the feelings associated with them. But, I've done it before. Once last year, once a week for the past two years. And, I'll do it again.

Setting my jaw, I unlock the cabinet and pull out an armful of glocks.

* * *

"The first thing you will learn today is how to shoot a gun. The second thing is how to win a fight."

I walk down the line of transfer initiates, pressing the nine millimeters into their hands. Most of them look like they're sleep walking. My stomach clenches nervously. Maybe I should've saved the guns for later.

"Initiation is divided into three stages," I continue, raising my voice a little. Maybe I can yell them awake. "We will measure your progress and rank you according to your performance in each stage." _We_, I think wryly. More like _them_. I know my opinion will not carry much weight against Eric's, or even Max's, even though they're observing from padded chairs in an office completely across the compound. "The stages are not weighted equally in determining your final rank, so it is possible, though difficult, to drastically improve your rank over time."

My situation had been a roller coaster. I won top marks in stage one; I'd had hands on experience with most of the moves. Only, my experiences were on the receiving end. My scores had drastically plummeted in stages two and three, as could be evidenced by the fact that I was still making frequent trips to the landscape room. It was my stage one rank, and the fundamental fact that I only had four fears in my landscape that got me my number one ranking.

"We believe that preparation eradicates cowardice, which we define as the failure to act in the midst of fear. Therefore each stage of initiation is intended to prepare you in a different way. The first stage is primarily physical; the second, primarily emotional; the third, primarily mental."

The kid on the end, the blonde Candor transfer interrupts me, talking through his wide yawn. "But what...what does firing a gun have to do with...bravery?"

The irritation snaps through my limbs faster than I can contain it, and before I know it, I've got the hammer down, barrel pressed against the kid's forehead. He freezes, mid-yawn.

Lauren was right; I _had_ used up my nice quota.

"Wake. Up," I snap. "You are holding a loaded gun, you idiot. Act like it." I did not volunteer to endanger my life by handing out weapons to sleepy babies. None of them could even comprehend the level of bravery that goes into firing a bullet at a living, breathing person. It's something I've only done once, and not something I care to repeat anytime soon, but it was one of my proudest moments as a Dauntless. One bullet, hitting dead center.

My father would be sickened. Which is, perhaps, the reason that I get so much joy from it.

"And to answer your question...you are far less likely to soil your pants and cry for you mother if you're prepared to defend yourself."

It's true you're far less likely to freak. It doesn't mean you won't, though.

"This is also information you may need to know later in stage one. So, watch me."

I turn to face the target wall, exaggerating my movements so they'll be able to easily see the stance they'll need to take. I hold the gun at arms' length, and take a breath. On the exhale, my finger squeezes the trigger. Mechanical, automatic, unfeeling.

The bullet sinks neatly into the bull's eye.

I step back, turning as I do, and motion with the barrel towards the wall. The nine initiates begin moving, settling into position behind the chalk line, and I circle around to stand behind them. Only one boy, the blonde from Erudite, hits the target the first time—not the center, but the outer rings.

It figures an Erudite would be the first to make it. They probably have a mathematical formula to predict the trajectory of the bullet.

The initiates shoot round after round, and soon, my ears are ringing with the sound of bullets bouncing off the targets. I walk up and down the line, observing posture. I catch a boy from Candor, a huge beast of a kid, firing blindly, both eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"What do you think you're doing?" I hiss, lurching forward to still his hand before he can shoot again. "These are _bullets_. They _kill _people. Do you understand me?"

He stares up at me, stupefied, looking like he's ready to break into tears at any moment. I sigh, and soften my voice.

"Look," I say, repositioning his hands. "Hold it steady, like so. There you go. Focus only on the target. Don't watch the gun, or your hands, or anything else. Only the target, right where you want the bullet to land."

He nods a couple of times, and swallows hard. I step back, and he brings his arms up. His hands are shaking, but as I watch, he clenches his jaw, steadying himself. The bullet doesn't hit perfectly, but it's pretty good, landing in the third ring. I clap a hand down on his shoulder and give an approving nod.

"Excellent. Exactly like that. Do it again."

I watch him a couple more times until I'm satisfied that he's more comfortable. I continue down the line. Everyone, I notice, is hitting the target. Some of them are pretty damn good shots, even after only a couple hours.

I don't intend to let my gaze linger on Tris, but I can't help it. She's intense, focused, eyes hard and trained, unforgiving, on the red bull's eye as her fingers squeeze the trigger over and over and over. It takes her only seconds to reload, and then she's back at it again.

A frown pulls my brows together as I watch her. This is not the same girl that sat next to me at the dinner table last night. That girl was composed, mediated. The one standing in front of me now, though, is everything but.

A shiver prickles down my spine as she hits dead center, again.

* * *

It's a pleasant surprise to find all the initiates waiting for me outside the dining hall when I arrive to collect them after lunch. They all look contented, bellies full, and I hope they haven't eaten too much. Four hours of kickboxing could make a nasty mess if that be the case.

I lead them up to the fight room, and they move to stand next to the bags without instruction. I stand in the middle of the room, where they'll all be able to hear and see me easily.

"As I said this morning," I begin, "next you will learn how to fight. The purpose of this is to prepare you to act; to prepare your body to respond to threats and challenges—which you will need, if you intend to survive life as a Dauntless.

"We will go over technique today, and tomorrow you will start to fight each other. So I recommend that you pay attention. Those who don't learn fast will get hurt."

I move to a bag and begin demonstrating a few of the basics, naming each one as I do: jab, cross, uppercut, hook, a couple of kicks. I move in slow motion the first time through, going step by step, but then on the second time, I speed up to real time, so they can see what the moves are supposed to look like in action. The sting of the bag on my unprotected skin is not unfamiliar; I know many of the initiates will leave today with bruises and welts. We had decided against providing gloves for them, though, since, in most realistic situations, having gloves will be out of the question.

As with the morning session, it takes everyone a few minutes to get settled into the motions. I smirk to myself as I make my first round—they all look like fish flopping around. I walk around and examine each initiate for a moment, taking in their stances, spotting any weaknesses. I readjust elbows, straighten curved blows, arch foots and steady torsos.

I have just finished correcting Molly's—a whale of a girl from Candor—foot placement, when I turn around and there is Tris, and just like earlier, I feel a little caught off guard. I watch her for a few seconds, observing her movements just like I've done for six others. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, but that's the only acknowledgment I get.

She is small—much smaller than I had thought last night when I caught her from the net. If I had to guess, I'd say she's no taller than five feet, and maybe a hundred pounds, dripping wet. Her limbs are thin and willowy, and I realize now, looking at her closely, that what could be mistaken for wiriness isn't. The muscle tone throughout her arms and legs is very, very vague, almost nonexistent; her hits bounce off the bag, not moving it a centimeter. It makes my stomach churn to think what would happen to her if she were to end up in a fight with someone like Al, the monster that was firing blind, or Eric, whose malice more than makes up for his lack of brawn. Her lack of fat and muscle, though, can be used to her advantage.

"You don't have much muscle," I say, even though, judging by her apparent exasperation with the exercise, I'm sure she already knows this. "Which means you're better off using your knees and elbows. You can put more power behind them."

She glances up at me, relaxing for a moment, and I see one last flaw. Without thinking about what I'm doing, I reach out and press a hand to her stomach, just like I've done for several others.

A second passes before either of us realizes that I'm actually touching her. And then, it's like all of my senses are in overdrive. My hand stretches from the edge of one rib cage to the other, and I can feel the delicate bones protruding into the palm of my hand as she breathes. The breath catches in her throat, and then the rapid palpitations of her heart, beating so hard, are drumming against my fingertips. My own pulse quickens to match. The heat creeps up the back of my neck, making me just the slightest bit lightheaded, and she stares up at me, wide-eyed. _Doe eyes_, I think. My mind flashes back to earlier, when she was shooting, and to last night, as she stared out over the crowd in the pit. The intensity in those same gray orbs then had been hawk-like.

"Never forget to keep tension here."

I'm not entirely sure of the words that are coming out of my mouth, but I have to say something, anything to break up the fog that's collected in my mind. I pull myself away from her and keep walking, not even noticing the two other initiates that I pass. My hand tingles, the ghost of her pulse still pounding into my skin. There's no electricity, no spark, no fireworks erupting in my stomach, just warmth radiating up my arm. I lean against the wall in the far corner, next to the water cooler, and let my eyes fall back to her. I take off my trainer blinders for a moment; I'm just Tobias, and she's just Tris, and I'm just watching her. Studying her, like this is the first time I've really seen her, like she's not just a name on a log or a body to be accounted for. My hand flexes on it's own accord.

She's not gorgeous. She's not soft and curved and everything a woman should be. Nothing about her screams extraordinary.

Except...there's something there, under that unassuming surface. Something hot and alive and liberating. Something that only comes out when she's like this, pushed to the very edge and still going, falling through the air onto a net or fingers wrapped around a trigger or fists pummeling into a bag.

I want to see it again and again and again. It's like a new oxygen, and when she stops for a moment, doubling over for a breath, I feel my chest ache.

I last another fifteen minutes before I dismiss them for dinner.

* * *

There's a little overhang, down on the side of the chasm, that covers a flat expanse of rock right up next to the water's edge. The angle at which the piece of stone hangs makes it almost impossible to see the little mesa underneath it from just about every angle up above. I found it my first week in the compound. I'd been ranked first in stage one, and there were rumors flying around about a group of initiates getting together to throw me into the chasm, so I made up my mind that I was going to teach myself how to swim. The swimming lessons didn't go so well—the pressure of the water felt too much like that little closet—but I'd found a fantastic place to come and be alone, and being alone is just what I need tonight.

I kick my boots to the back corner of the little cove, peel my my socks off, and roll the legs of my jeans up to mid-calf. The flat stone is just big enough to hold me, completely spread eagle, but when I lay down, the spray from the water bites at my feet and ankles. It's frigid, even though it must be late summer by now, but the cold helps me to clear my mind.

I'd watched her again at dinner, from across the other side of the dining hall, trying to figure out what it was about her that had driven her into my head so mercilessly. She's just another girl, just like any of the other girls in her class, any of the other girls that had been in the initiate class last year.

Except, she isn't.

And that's what is so maddening about the whole thing. I can't figure out why I can't stop thinking about her.

Abruptly, I stand, shoving my jeans back down my legs and pushing my feet roughly into my boots. As appealing as being alone sounded in the cacophony of the dining hall, it doesn't anymore. But neither does being with Lauren, Zeke or Shauna.

I wander aimlessly up the path, taking the stairs higher and higher. It must be a coincidence that when I stop, I find myself outside of Tori and Bud's. There are no customers, and even though it's only eight o'clock, Tori is moving around the room, flipping off lights and tucking equipment into cabinets.

"Come on back here," Tori says by way of greeting, jutting her chin in the direction of the back room. "I'm closing shop for the night. Bud took the afternoon off, and it's been dead slow, and I'm whooped."

Obligingly, I follow her into the back room, flipping off the last set of lights as I go. The "back room" is really just Tori's apartment. At one point in time, it was probably an office; there's a credenza in the corner, and a rusty old office chair, but it looks like it hasn't been touched in decades. A couch along the back wall is unfolded into a queen bed, blankets and pillows piled haphazardly, but the majority of the room is dominated by a large drawing table, a table big enough to comfortably sit and feed a group of twelve. A mismatched conglomerate of chairs is circled around it, and I drop down onto a stool closest to me. Tori sits across from me and spreads out a layer of carbon paper, reaching up with one hand to turn on the lamp. It is one of those flood lamps, the kind you imagine they would use in a police interrogation; the sudden brightness makes me blink.

"Sorry," Tori mutters around the pen cap clutched in her teeth.

"A back order?" I ask, leaning forward to see what she's drawing. It looks like nothing more than a sketch—three birds, nothing more than silhouettes, flying down in a loose 'V' formation. Her pen makes careful, deliberate strokes, and her eyebrows pull together in thought.

"No," she corrects softly after a moment, taking the cap from her mouth. "Just...thinking." She reaches up and rubs the back of her neck slowly for a moment, then straightens, shaking her head and crumpling the paper into a ball.

"I do have appointments to get ready for though." She pulls a fresh piece of paper towards her, and begins a collection of rough, gestural shapes.

"How's the training going so far?" she asks after a moment.

I shrug, even though she can't see me. "Fine, I guess. It's only the end of the first day. We haven't really gotten to the real stuff yet."

Tori smiles wryly. "Any of them flakes?"

I snort. "Nah. I don't think so." My mind flashes to Al, the big guy who fired blind earlier, but I don't amend my statement. It's not really anybody's business what the process of the initiates are; I'm sure even Tori did things during her training that would embarrass her now.

"I had a couple of them up here tonight," she continues, and my curiosity piques.

"Who?" I ask, halfway not believing her. Tattoos on the second night?

She smirks up at me. "Customer-artist confidentiality."

I look at her. "That's bullshit."

She laughs, and I don't press the issue. I'll find out for myself soon enough, I'm sure.

We fall into a comfortable silence while she works, and I find myself studying her. She must be at least forty five, but she doesn't look it. Her body is hard and toned, her face and hands tough, weathered. In another place, another life, she could've been beautiful. But here, in the harsh lighting, gray streaking through her dark hair, she looks striking. Just like another girl.

"You did the aptitude tests for Abnegation this year, didn't you?"

She answers without looking up. "I did."

I hesitate for a moment, weighing the words in my head. "Did you test Beatrice Prior?"

_Beatrice_. I say the name slowly, feeling it roll off my tongue in an odd way. She isn't Beatrice to me; she's just Tris. It's strange to me to connect the person and the name I know to the one that she was just two short days ago.

Tori still doesn't look up, but I see her brow furrow. "I did," she repeats.

I don't ask what her scores were. Nothing matters besides the fact that they clearly weren't Abnegation. When I don't say anything for a few seconds, Tori finally looks up at me expectantly.

"Tobias, you can't just ask a girl a question like that without explaining."

Her comment makes me grin, but it's short lived. I feel it sliding from my face before I even open my mouth to speak again. "I'm just...curious about her."

That sounds much better than "I've been thinking about her pretty much non-stop since she jumped into the net". Not as stalker-esque.

Tori leans back from her sketch and looks at me, one eyebrow raised. "Curious," she repeats flatly.

Heat pools in my cheeks and up the back of my neck. "Interested," I clarify. "Intrigued."

I can tell Tori is smirking. "And is she 'intrigued' by you as well?"

My breath comes out in a heavy huff, and I feel the humor seep out of the room as I rub a hand over my face.

"I don't know." It comes out muffled against my palm. "If I had to guess, I'd say probably not. I'm her instructor. She has no reason to think of me in any other way."

My mind flashes to earlier in the training room. Had her wide eyes and rapid pulse been a sign of...what? Intimidation? Anxiety? Fear?

Tori doesn't come around the table and lay a hand on my back, or wind an arm around my shoulder, but I hear a muffled click as she slides the cap onto her pen, and it's almost as comforting.

"I don't even know how I feel about her," I continue, my voice rising. I throw my hands up in exasperation, and push out of my chair to begin pacing around the table. "I've never felt like this about anybody. But I don't know what _this_ is. I don't even really know her—I've just talked to her a couple of times and corrected her uppercut."

Tori snorts.

"I just..." I lean against the side of the table, and drop my head down into my hands. "I don't know. I don't know anything right now, and that's what's so damn confusing."

She doesn't say anything, and I don't have anything to add that it's utterly humiliating, so we just sit there in silence for a few minutes.

"Well," she finally says, "I don't really know what to tell you. Other than to just do what you think will make you happy."

I turn my head and glare at her out of one eye, the other one still buried in my fingers. "That's really shitty advice, Tori."

She laughs, head tilted back, and I can't help but chuckle.

"I feel like a pervert," I say, sinking back down onto my stool.

Tori shakes her head, still grinning. "You're not a pervert. Look." She leans forward, and reaches out to grasp my forearm, grin softening down into a gentler smile. I feel a pang in my chest; nobody's touched me like that in a long, long time. "If she's in your head, maybe she's supposed to be there for a reason. Maybe it means something."

_Tori's raised eyebrow, her pursed lips."And why is it that you think you want this tattoo?"_

_ Me, standing up straighter, pulling back my shoulders. "Because it means something. Not like a stupid star or cross or heart. If I'm going to get marked, I want it to mean something."_

_ Her sad smile. "Do you really thing a bunch of ink on your back is going to mean anything to anybody?"_

_ "It'll mean something to me. And that's all that matters. That's all I'm looking for."_

The memory comes flooding back to me out of nowhere, of that night almost two years ago. I wanted so bad to find something worth living for in Dauntless, something that made me brave and honorable and noble. Something that made me into someone better than the person I'd come from.

I still hadn't found that something.

I meet Tori's eyes, and know that her word choice was no coincidence.

"Why her?" I ask. "What is it about her?"

She shrugs one shoulder, and squeezes my arm. "I'm not sure. I don't think anybody ever really is."


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

"_Well it's late, and you know I've been up drinkin,__  
__Talkin to myself up and down the hall.__  
__Ain't it great, another fabulous disaster.__  
__Well I can't wait, for the next hammer to fall.__You may have won this battle baby,__  
__But it don't mean I won't win the war.__  
__And you, you don't even know what it is that you're fightin for."_

_-"Fighting For", Cross Canadian Ragweed_

There's a knot in my stomach when I wake up the next morning. I hate this first stage of initiation, I really do. There's nothing harder to me than watching a group of kids—who are mostly friends, no less—leave each other with cracked ribs and bloody noses and black eyes. At least in simulations and landscapes, it's the initiate inflicting the pain on themselves.

I forgo breakfast and instead head down to the arena. On the green chalkboard in the corner, I write out all the initiates' names and then cock my head to the side, studying them. I try to make the pairings as fair as I can on the first day.

I pull back from the chalkboard, reading through the pairings once more. Something doesn't feel right about them, though. My eyes roll over Tris's name, and I know, as much as I don't want to admit it, that I've found the problem. I erase her name from next to Myra's, and replace it with Drew's, moving Edward up with Peter and her down to the bottom of the list, unaccompanied. It's not as balanced, and I try to rationalize it in my head—she's the smallest, the weakest, the only Abnegation, she has no idea what she'd be getting into—but it's all talk. I just don't want to see her get beaten to a pulp. There's a difference between pushing her through her fears and pushing her straight into someone else's fist.

Eric arrives just as I set down the chalk, and I stifle a groan. Of all the six leaders, they really had to pair me up with him? It's a general practice to have a member of the leadership circle oversee training, but this just seems like overkill.

I have three guesses as to who decided which leader would oversee my group, and all three of them are standing in front of me, pierced eyebrow raised.

"Careful, Four," he says mildly, jutting his chin towards the board. "Some people might see that as favoritism."

I shrug, crossing my arms. "We have an uneven number. One would have to sit out anyway."

"Then why wouldn't you pair the two girls up and have a boy sit out?"

"Well, when you decide to take a step up from your current position and become a trainer, then you can decide who's paired with whom in the fights. But until then, I'll just relieve you from that duty, your highness."

The sneer on his face falls into a glare. "Don't you mock me, Stiff." He takes a step closer, and then we're standing toe to toe in the middle of the arena. "It might come with some unwanted consequences."

I snort. "You know Eric, for an Erudite, you really have a hard time coming up with intelligent insults."

He lunges forward, hand wrapping around my collar. I smirk. Down the hall, I can hear the initiates making their way towards the training room.

"Careful, Eric," I say quietly. "I might just decide that the leadership in this faction is rapidly declining, and that it might be a good idea for me to take that position that Max keeps offering. Then your sorry ass would be out of a job, wouldn't it?"

The rage that contorts his face is instantaneous, and I can't help but chortle. He shoves me back roughly.

"You watch yourself, Eaton," he growls as the first initiate makes his way into the room. "You remember what I said about those unintended consequences. Then we'll see who's laughing."

I just roll my eyes. I can take whatever it is he thinks he can dish out.

* * *

"Since there are an odd number of you, one of you won't be fighting today." My eyes flicker over to Tris on their own accord, and I see her face brighten in relief. "I need the first pair, Will and Al, to step into the center of the circle. Everyone else, move out of their way."

The two boys move into position, and begin shuffling around each other, hands raised. I watch them carefully, making a mental note of flaws to correct. Al is a monster, a huge beast packed with muscle. But Will is quick, agile, and smart. It should be a good pair up. Al throws the first punch, hitting Will square in the jaw. My eyes narrow; Will's hands are too low, hovering down around his chest. Will counters by hooking a foot around Al's legs and knocking him to the ground, but doesn't pounce quick enough. In the next second, Al is on his feet again. They circle around each other for a couple minutes, and their hesitance grows as the time stretches on.

"Do you think this is a leisure activity?" Eric shouts from my right. "Should we break for naptime? Fight each other!"

He shakes he head, falling back against the wall. "Damn, this is boring."

A bubble of disgust rises in my stomach, and I stare at him.

"But..." Al pulls my attention back to the center of the room. "Is it scored or something? When does the fight end?"

Eric speaks up before I have a chance. "It ends when one of you is unable to continue."

I roll my eyes. The way he says it makes it sound so overly dramatic, so barbarian.

"According to Dauntless rules," I amend, "one of you could also concede." As much as he wishes the new bylaws were already in place, they're not.

Eric glares at me. This is the second time I've undermined his authority in less than an hour. "According to the _old_ Dauntless rules," he snaps. "In the _new_ rules, no one concedes."

I meet his eyes evenly. "A brave man acknowledges the strength of others."

He knows I'm not talking about Will and Al anymore, and he bristles.

"A brave man never surrenders."

Neither one of us show signs of backing down.

"This is ridiculous," Al finally pipes up. I'm not entirely sure whether he's talking about us or the fight. I shake my head to clear it. "What's the point of beating him up? We're in the same faction!"

Will grins, crouching low, hopping from foot to foot. "Oh you think it's going to be that easy? Go on. Try to hit me, slowpoke."

I can't help but grin. The kid's got balls to egg on someone like Al, that's for sure.

Al tries a few hits, but Will has found his weakness—his slowness—and darts around them easily. It's entertaining—until I see the switch go off in Al's eyes that turns him into that fierce predator that he's capable of being. I grimace; the fight won't last much longer now.

Sure enough, less than thirty seconds later, Will's crumpled on the ground, unconscious. Al taps his cheek, eyes wide. The rest of the initiates fall silent, waiting for Will to come to. When he does, there is a collective breath taken around the room.

"Get him up." Eric's eyes glint sadistically, and that bubble of disgust grows larger in my gut. I turn to the chalkboard and circle Al's name.

"Next up—Molly and Christina." Christina doesn't stand near as much of a chance as Will did, and I can hear the excitement in Eric's voice. Sick bastard.

Al drags Will over to me, and I wrap his arm around my shoulder, taking over the support.

"It's all right," I assure Al, who looks as though he could burst into tears at any moment. "He'll be just fine. You did well, Al. Your technique was good."

Will groans into my ear and coughs a couple times, weakly. I look over at him, frowning. His eyes are unfocussed, unseeing. I had planned on just setting Will down in the corner, getting him something to drink, but looking at him now, I see the telltale signs of a concussion.

"Damn," I curse under my breath. I glance over at Eric. The last thing I want to do is leave him alone with these kids, but it doesn't look like I have a choice. Will needs to go down to the infirmary, and there's no way he could make it by himself.

"Come on," I tell Will, pulling him forward. "Let's go."

He blinks, stumbling against me. "Where're we goin'?" he slurs, head lolling to the side. "'Re we spinning?"

"We're going to the infirmary," I say, hauling him up straighter. "You got hit pretty good."

The rest of the walk is full of similar questions—why is the wall blue? Are we inside of a rock?-and by the time we reach the infirmary, I'm about sick of it. I drop him down into the first bed I can find and grab the chart on the footboard to start filling in the information. As soon as the nurse arrives, I head back up to the training room. When I get there, though, Eric is the only one there.

"There's no way everybody finished," I say.

Eric turns to me, dusting the chalk from his hands. Behind him, on the board, I see Molly's name circled.

"I had to cut training short today. One of your initiates decided maybe she wasn't as brave as she thought she was."

My mind instantly flashes to Tris, but I know that's not who he's talking about. I frown.

"One of my initiates did what?"

He smirks. "She decided to go...hang out. Down by the chasm."

I stare at him, uncomprehending, and feel the unease begin to settle in the pit of my stomach. "Hang out," I repeat. "By the chasm."

His smirk widens into a dark grin. "Well, more like hang _off_, if you want to be more technical."

The blood turns to ice in my veins, and I take a step closer. "You did not hang one of my initiates over the chasm." My voice is low and even, but my hands are shaking.

"I did nothing but supervise. It was actually quite impressive. I didn't think she would make the whole five-"

My hands slam into his chest, cutting him off. His eyes flash up at me, but I get right down in his face.

"And what reason," I bite out, "did you have for making one of my initiates dangle over the chasm?"

He looks me dead in the eye. "She didn't finish her fight."

He says the words like we're discussing meal choices in the dining hall. My stomach churns and I feel the bile rise in my throat. There are so many things I'd like to do to him—so many ways I could hurt him, even just with my bare hands—but I know if I made a move on him, I'd be good as dead.

I grab his collar and pull him closer. His breath washes over my face, hot and rank, and the metal in his eyebrows glitters in the light.

"You will not take anymore radical disciplinary action over my initiates," I growl through gritted teeth. Rage pulses through my body, clenching my fist tighter around his shirt, and I feel the fabric begin to give way under my fingers. "If you have a problem with the way they're being taught, you bring it to me, and I will address it. And until your new bylaws are voted into action, we're still governed by the old code of conduct. Which means if my initiates want to concede in a fight, they sure as hell can, and it would do you well to remember it."

I shove him back, and he doesn't even stumble, just stares at me like he has been for the past few minutes. If I wasn't so outraged, it would make me uncomfortable. Then, the corners of his lips turn up in a sneer, and he leans in again.

"You watch yourself, Eaton," he says quietly. "You better keep an eye open all the Goddamn time."

He straightens up, and I meet his eyes evenly. "Go to hell, Eric."

* * *

I take the long way around to the dorms, instead of just cutting through the Pit. I have to work off some anger. Half of me is still in disbelief; what the hell kind of sick bastard makes a second day transfer initiate hang over the damn chasm because she couldn't finish her first fight against a girl twice her size?

A voice in the back of my head whispers that it's my fault for pairing her up with Molly; she should've gone against Tris.

I reach up and run a hand through my hair. God, this girl is going to make me loose it.

When I get to the initiate dorm, I don't knock—they are co-ed dorms, after all—but I do ease the door open slowly, to give whoever is inside some notice. I peek my head around the door, and, sure enough, Christina is lying in the first bunk, eyes closed. Al sits on the bed next to her, and he looks up at me when I enter. I nod at him in greeting.

"How is she?" I ask quietly, but Christina's eyes flutter open anyway.

"I'm not asleep." Her voice sounds hoarse and strained, and when she opens her mouth, I see that her gums are stained red with blood.

I step inside and close the door behind me. She tries to sit up, but Al presses her back into the mattress, and she falls back, wincing, without anymore protest.

"You look like you've seen better days, kid," I say. The entire left side of her face is swollen, and there are splits in the skin of her eyebrow, cheek, and lip. A purple bruise blossoms up the side of her neck, and, as I step closer, I can see that the skin of her palms is peeled away, flecks of black paint embedded in the raw flesh.

She snorts. "I think that would be a pretty accurate statement."

My hand hovers just over her shin for a moment; I should reach out and pat her, do something to comfort her. But I pull it back. No—I'm not cruel and sadistic like Eric, but I won't baby them.

"I'm not sorry you lost, and I'm not sorry you're hurt," I say, and it's true. Mostly, at least. "You're a Dauntless now. You have to expect things like this."

I can see Al's face redden, and he opens his mouth to protest, but I hold a hand up to stop him. "I do want you to know, however," I continue, speaking just as much to him as to her, "that the situation with Eric has been addressed. There won't be any more of these kinds of occurrences while you're under my responsibility."

Al deflates.

"It was completely uncalled for," I say, softer. Christina's eyes have fallen closed again.

I turn to Al again. "Do you have access to ice?"

He nods. "That's where Tris is. She went down to the dining hall to get some."

"Good." I hesitate for a moment before adding, "If you need anything else, just let me know. I'm apartment 14B, just across the way."

I should be disgusted that part of me hopes she'll need something, just so I can see Tris again. But I'm not.

* * *

Zeke and Lauren are sitting outside my apartment when I get there.

"Eric is a dickwad," Zeke says in greeting.

Lauren nods vigorously, dusting off her pants. "A complete asswipe."

As stressed out as I am, and as pissed off as I still am, I can't help but laugh—a big belly laugh, one that makes me have to lean against the wall for support.

"Oh my God," I half groan, tilting my head back against the rocks. I let my eyes fall closed and let my breathing slow back to a normal rate. "Do you have any idea how fucked up my day has been?"

Lauren leans against my chest, wrapping her arms around my waist, and for once I pull her closer instead of pushing her away. Zeke claps a hand on my shoulder

"Is she okay?" Lauren's voice is muffled by my t-shirt.

"Yeah." I nod. "She's more beat up from the fight than the chasm." I grimace sympathetically. "She's going to feel it in the morning, that's for sure."

We fall into a comfortable silence, and I realize how much I've missed my two best friends over the last twenty-four hours. It feels good to have them with me again. Normal. I don't have to be Four, the hard-ass trainer. I can just be Four, the normal guy. Maybe even a little bit Tobias, too.

"We decided to go swimming," Zeke says suddenly, breaking the silence. I open my eyes and look at him.

"Where are you going to go _swimming_?"

Lauren pulls away from me. "We found a little creek earlier, when we went out for a run this afternoon. We were just going to swim then, since we were all sweaty and stuff, but we decided to come back for you."

Every ounce of sensible inside of me protests, loudly: I haven't eaten dinner, I'm exhausted, I have to get up early for training tomorrow.

And then, inexplicably, my mind flashes to Tris. Or, maybe it's not so unexpected, considering the recent trend. I see her standing on the platform, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. I see her in the training room, hard and fierce. I see her next to the punching bag, less than six inches away from me, exposed.

Exposed. Something I haven't let myself be in a long time.

Something that she makes me want to be, but only for her.

Maybe swimming with Zeke and Lauren is a start.

Maybe it'll mean something to me, eventually.

I leave a note for Tris and Al on my door, referring them to the on call nurse at the infirmary, and don't give it a second thought.

* * *

The water is cool and refreshing. It laps in tiny waves all over my body, pulling me downstream. Lauren and Zeke are behind me, shrieking and splashing and wrestling in the faster current, but I am stretched out on my back, floating. My ears are underwater, and I hear the sound of their roughhousing through cotton.

Laying like this reminds me of my mother.

The best memories I have of her—the best memories of my childhood—are from the period of time when I was six or seven, back when Marcus was still trying to work his way into a council position. He would spend upwards of twelve hours at work—twelve hours that my mother and I didn't have to live in fear.

I wasn't allowed a lot of time to play, as an Abnegation child. My mother, who was an Amity transfer, loved being outside, but she couldn't even take me to the park for more than ten or fifteen minutes every day. I wasn't allowed toys past the age of five; they were considered indulgent. One of the only times I was allowed to play was in the bath, as strange as it sounds.

I would spend hours in the tub every night, until my hands and feet were pruned beyond recognition. We would make up all kinds of games to play, involving soap bars and shampoo bottles and washrags. One night, the shampoo bottle would be a submarine; the next, the soap, a whale. Sometimes the rag would be a net, and the suds in the water would be the fish that it was scooping up.

Sometimes, if I was lucky, she would sing to me. She sang me beautiful songs about moonbeams and pirates and dragon tails. One night, I realized her songs sounded even more magical if I held my head underwater. It was after that that she taught me to float on my back; there's only so long a person can keep their head underwater without it being harmful. Floating on my back, though, I could lay there for as long as I wanted, and still listen to the ethereal strains of her voice, beautifully distorted by the porcelain basin.

Laying in the water now, I can almost hear her singing again.

But that was before. Before my father got his position on the council, before he started working a regular eight to five. Before my mother decided she wanted another child, because she thought for some reason that if she was pregnant, he wouldn't hit her, and that another baby might soften his temper. Before that night when she was seven months pregnant that he knocked her unconscious, and the stress from his beating sent her into early labor. Before he yelled at me to run and find a doctor, but I didn't, because I was frozen in place, watching, as my mother convulsed on her bed.

Before she died, and took my brother with her.

After that, bath time became a means to wash the blood from my body, and I didn't get to go to the park at all anymore, because my father kept me locked inside the house.

After that, I never, ever wanted to hear anyone sing again.

* * *

**A/N: Hi there! If you're a returning reader, you'll probably notice I made a couple of changes to this chapter. Well, more than a couple. I also made a few nips and tucks at Chapter Two as well, just to help the flow. I felt like the old Chapter Three was rather OOC, and didn't do Tobias' character much justice, so I came up with this new and improved one, which I like much better.**

**And, if you're a first time reader, you won't be any the wiser ;)**

**Thanks for stopping by, and please drop a review on your way out!**

**Thanks, **

**Jennifer**


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Three**

"We have called this meeting to address some concerns that have been brought to the council."

I keep my eyes on the padded shoulder of Ruthe's chair, refusing to meet her eyes. In my periphery, I see the rings in Eric's brow glitter as he swivels his chair back and forth; his face is carefully blank, as is mine.

"Concerns?"

Lauren has never been one to bite her tongue. She leans forward angrily, jabbing her finger down at the sheet of paper in her hands.

"I don't know what the hell you think you know, but I can tell you right now that this is bullshit."

I sigh, and bring a hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose. "Lor. You're really not helping right now."

She turns on me, her eyes wild. "The hell I'm not! Each and every one of them are batshit crazy, and they need to know it!" She swings around and glares at each of the six council members in turn.

Harrison is the first to speak. His deep voice echos off the walls, comforting and calming. "Lauren, just take a moment to listen to the council, please."

Lauren huffs angrily, but falls back into her chair. Harrison rises to his feet and begins to list off the allegations.

All of them are against me—abandonment of initiates, insubordination, insubordination, and, again, insubordination.

It's the last one, though, that really gets me: inappropriate fraternization with an initiate. I've read over the list at least twenty times in the last five minutes since the meeting started, but that one gets me every time.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Harrison looks at me, his eyes paradoxically polite, yet cold.

I cross my left leg over my right, propping my knee against the ovular table's edge, and meet his gaze.

"I don't know why you even had Lauren come," I say frankly. "Since she's not being reprimanded."

Harrison hesitates, glancing back at Ruthe, Max and David, the three senior leaders. "We wanted to make sure everything was covered equally, with both of you, so that there would be no question of what was expected from the two of you. It was also an attempt to avoid the appearance of discrimination."

"Against me." It's not a question, but he nods once in conformation. I turn to Lauren. "Leave," I say flatly. "There's no point in your being here if all it is is for show."

Her nostrils flare, but she doesn't argue. On her way out, she throws all of them another glare.

"That was quite unnecessary." Ruthe's voice is quiet in the large room.

I shrug. The irony of the whole situation makes me sick. They invited Lauren in an effort to avoid being charged with discrimination, when the acts they were charging me with were clearly born from discriminatory thoughts and opinions. "They're my charges, not hers. It's my business."

Ruthe inclines her head in acquiescence.

I pluck the paper from the table, and don't bother standing to address them as is practice. These people have been begging me to join them for two years. They don't need me groveling in front of them.

"'Abandonment of initiates'," I read off. I glance at Harrison over the top of the paper. "I assume you're referring to the night of the Choosing Ceremony, when Eric told me that it had been approved for him to escort the initiates to their dorms because the council wanted them to know more background information on the faction."

I see David and Ruthe exchange a look. Eric stops swiveling in his chair.

I nod to myself. "I would be correct, then. Let's see..." I scan down the list, and let out a low whistle. "Three charges of insubordination. Well. I certainly won't argue those, if Eric won't argue charges of provocation." Shannon, who has remained silent through the meeting thus far, clears her throat uncomfortably, but I continue on. "But, that's our business, not the council's. I do want to know, however, where the last one comes from. 'Inappropriate fraternization with an initiate'." I turn in my chair to face Eric directly.

"I want to know exactly where you got your proof for this one. I want to see the evidence—see the tape, or hear the voice recording, or read the writing. Because this one doesn't just affect me. You're accusing a new initiate—one who hasn't even been in the Dauntless compound for forty eight hours—of something that, if leaked to the public, could inhibit their entire life and career here."

Harrison, Ruthe, David, Max and Shannon all turn to Eric as well. His face is a splotchy red.

"You ate with her the first night."

I nod my head, agreeing. "Sure. I ate with several initiates their first night, so they wouldn't be lonely, or scared. Which one are you accusing me of fraternizing with?"

His answer is immediate. "Tris. Beatrice Prior."

Her name hangs in the air for a few seconds before I respond. It makes me even more livid to hear him say her name like that, like he's violated her entire being just in five syllables. "Did I do anything inappropriate to her? Touch her, say anything out of line? You tell me, Eric, you were sitting right there, too."

Eric doesn't say anything for a minute.

"Well?" David prompts, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Eric's lips flatten into a straight line, and he shakes his head once.

"Anything else?" I ask.

The redness on his face has begun to darken to an unhealthy shade of peuce. "You didn't partner her with anyone for the first fight."

I don't lift my eyes from his face. "You were there. We had nine initiates. One would've sat out anyway."

"You could've paired her with someone," he shoots back. "That Christina girl could've had a more fair fight. Or, Myra could've fought her instead of Drew."

My vision wavers as a cloud of red bursts in front of my eyes. What a hypocritical bastard, lecturing me on fighting fair.

I grit my teeth and nod, though, since I can't beat his ass into next year. And, since he does have a valid point. "Okay. You're right. It wasn't one of my finest calls." This is the weakest point in my argument. I don't have a logical reason for not partnering Tris up yesterday. None of the other council members comment on it, though, and I breathe a small sigh of relief.

"Anything else?" I repeat.

His eyes dart to the left once, almost imperceptibly: a sign that he's struggling.

"You went to her dorm room. I have that one on camera."

There's an intake of breath as the five other council members sit forward in their seat. Even I have to admit, this low of a blow was unexpected. Judging by the look on Eric's face, it was a spur of the moment accusation, but it's worked. He now has the full attention of everyone in the room, myself included.

He scrambles over to the control station in the corner, and keys up the video footage for the camera outside the initiate dorms. Sure enough, there I am, plainly recognizable from the front, slipping into the initiate dorm. Ruthe hums under her breath.

"Reverse," I say suddenly, remembering._ That's where Tris is. She went down to the dining hall to get some._

Eric hesitates for a second too long, and the other five turn to look at him. He knows what else is on the footage, then, and doesn't want to show it.

"Well?" Ruthe echoes. "Reverse it, if he's got something to show us."

"Time estimate?" Eric's voice is biting.

Quickly, I scan back through yesterday afternoon, thinking. "Fifteen thirty-five." I left the infirmary at three thirty. He punches in the time, and the footage pulls up. It rolls, unchanging for a moment, but then at fifteen thirty-six, three figures come into view—Al and Tris, with Christina supported between them. They shoulder the door open and disappear inside. Not two minutes later Tris emerges again, a pillowcase in hand. Another three minutes—during which Tris does not return to the dorm room—and I appear.

Eric shuts off the screen abruptly, and we all turn back around to the table.

"Well, it's obvious that you haven't been sneaking into Tris Prior's dorm room for any inappropriate reason," Ruthe says, eyebrow raised. "And you eating dinner with her is inconsequential. I will admit, it's not like you to pair a girl and a boy together during the first day of fighting—we commented on that while we watched-"

"What's the worst that could happen?"

I'm not sure if she's more surprised by my question, or the fact that I interrupted her. It's quiet for a few seconds as the six council members look from one to another to me.

"Where is it expressly forbidden in our code of conduct?" I say, my voice stronger, as I lean over the table. I feel my pulse pounding in my ears, and I halfway can't believe that the words are coming out of my mouth. I've hardly dared to admit anything to even myself, in the privacy of my own apartment—the conversation I had with Tori was the closest I'd ever gotten to acknowledging that something might eventually develop between Tris and I—and now, here I am, practically asking the council's permission to be romantically involved with one of my initiates. And I haven't even hardly _spoken_ to her.

I look at each of the six in turn, my eyes lingering longest on Eric. "There won't be any favoritism."

Ruthe recovers the quickest. "You know that if there is, you'll join the factionless."

The factionless have never scared me. Feeding them and taking them clothes were two of the very few acceptable Abnegation tasks I'd ever done regularly.

Ruthe leans forward, and there are only a couple of feet between us over the table. "You need to think long and hard about any decision you make involving Tris Prior."

Her voice is low and intense, and a momentary thrill of anxiety shoots through me, widening my eyes. She's not just talking about me being romantically involved with her anymore. There's something else there; the council is watching her. She inclines her head even lower, and then sits back again. I push myself from my chair, eyes hardening again as I look the group over.

"Are we clear?" David probes, steepling his fingers in front of his chest.

I flick the paper with my charges back at them, and it flutters across the tabletop. "Crystal."

* * *

It feels completely unnatural writing the four letters of Tris' name up next to Myra's. Myra is the next smallest initiate, the closest one in stature and skill to Tris, but seeing the pairing still makes my stomach clench uneasily. I suck in a deep breath through my teeth and hold it for a moment before I exhale, calling to mind the image of her in the Pit that first night, and her in the arena yesterday morning, firing that glock. She's going to get hurt; she's going to have bruises and welts and cuts and bloody noses and black eyes, but she can do it. What doesn't kill her will only make her stronger.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

I hear Eric enter the room behind me, but I don't acknowledge him. Any attempt at that might only serve to make my current situation worse.

It seems to work until, not ten seconds later, he knocks the nub of chalk out of my hand and proceeds to erase all my pairings with one swipe of his forearm.

It takes all I have to clench my jaw and my fists and not shove him back.

"What the hell are you _doing_?"

He begins to scribble names; his letters are sharp and jagged, and tilt so far to the right that they're almost illegible. _Molly—Edward, Christina—Mrya, Al—Drew. _

The sinking feeling comes before he even gets Peter's name all the way down.

Even through my fists, my hands still begin to tremble.

"I asked you a question."

Eric slams the chalk down into the tray, and it cracks into several small pieces.

"I suggest," he says, voice low and clearly enunciated, staring at the chalk, "that you go stand over in the corner, and that you find some way to deal with it."

When he finally does look up at me, his eyes are on fire, and for a moment, I am distracted, wondering how heavy his reprimand was.

"We're going to see just how Dauntless your little pet is."

A cruel sneer pulls the corners of his lips up, and he brushes by me without another word.

As soon as he clears the threshold, I whirl on whatever happens to be behind me. I feel my knuckles split as soon as they make contact with stone wall behind me, and a jolt runs up through my shoulder. A groan slips through my lips, but I pull back and hit again, and again, until both my hand and my shoulder are on fire.

I sink to the ground against the chalkboard, and tip my head back to rest in the tray.

And I just sit.

Tears don't come—they never have, for me—but the pain does, and the exhaustion. In the two years I've been a Dauntless, I've never felt so helpless, so out of control. There was a time where I actually felt like I belonged here.

Now, I don't feel like I could be any farther from home.

* * *

I give myself half an hour. I watch the seconds tick out in red fragmented numbers on the face of the digital clock in the hall. When thirty minutes rolls, I pull in a long breath through my nose, begging strength from every last nook and cranny in my body, and push myself up onto my feet. I brush the chalk dust from my hair and shoulder, and wipe the blood from my knuckles with the hem of my shirt. I wonder, idly, if this is why the Dauntless choose to wear black—blood won't show up on it.

I find a scrap of bandage in one of the cabinets in the corner, and wrap it gingerly around my hand, not bothering to stop and think about how sanitary it is, and knowing that I'll probably have to cut it out with a knife later tonight.

The initiates begin to trickle in in groups of twos or threes over the next fifteen minutes. I lean against the board and stare, unseeing, at the back wall. Despite the chatter and the presence of six other people in the room, I can feel it when Tris walks in—like part of me is pulled towards her. But I don't look at her. In my periphery, I see her stop dead in her tracks, and the guilt pools in my stomach and begins eating away. I could've changed the pairings while Eric was gone, but I didn't.

As much as I think about her, I have myself to think about sometimes, too. I've never felt more sickened by my lack of selflessness; I've never felt less Abnegation.

I'm not sure if it's that thought, or the sight of Eric reentering the room that makes me want to vomit. Pulling in one more breath, I straighten up, rolling my shoulders. As if the motion could roll me out of this weird funk my mind is in. _Come on, Tobias,_ I tell myself harshly. _Come on, _Four_. Pull it together. _

"Good morning," I call out. It takes only seconds for the talking to die down and for me to have everyone's attention. I see Christina out of the corner of my eye, and I wince sympathetically. She's so swollen and bruised that if I wouldn't have known it was her, I wouldn't have recognized her at all. She'll have to fight again today, too—Will has doctor's orders to sit out for a couple days—but at least Myra will be an easier opponent for her.

"Today will be very much like yesterday," I continue. "As you can see, you've all been paired up again. This morning, we'll have our initial four fights, and then when we come back from lunch, the winners of those fights will go up against each other. Any questions?"

Usually, we spend the first day on initial fights, and the second on ranked fights. But yesterday's incident threw our schedule out of whack.

No one speaks up with questions, so I step back and motion Molly and Edward forward. I try to pay attention—my mind inexplicably keeps wandering over to the opposite corner of the room—but there's not much to pay attention to. It's a short fight; in less than five minutes, Edward has Molly on the ground. She lost with nothing but her slowness.

Peter steps into the ring, and I grit my teeth, steeling myself. Beside me, I feel Eric's gaze and hear his snicker. I'm too worked up to even care, at this point.

"You okay there, Stiff?" Peter goads, smirking. "You look like you're about to cry. I might go easy on you if you cry."

The rage simmers, hot, in the pit of my stomach; I can hear my teeth grinding together. I cross my arms over my chest, in an effort to physically hold myself back. I should've shot the kid yesterday when I had the chance.

Peter drops down into a fighting stance, and my gut drops with him. Tris is still just standing there, arms slack and face white.

"Come on, Stiff," Peter eggs. "Just one little tear. Maybe some begging."

A fierce rush of pride shoots through me when I see her leg come up, but it's quickly drowned by anxiety as I realize that she's too slow, not sharp enough. He grabs her leg and twists, and time seems to stand still as I watch her fall. But no, she's right back on her feet again.

"Stop playing with her," Eric snaps. "I don't have all day."

The mischievous look leaves Peter's eyes, replaced by something cold and hard and cruel, and I feel like I really am going to throw up this time. I see everything in slow-motion, all my senses on hyper alert; Peter's jab seems to take hours to reach her face. Tris lurches to the side, and the movement is almost graceful, elegant, arching. She stumbles to the wall, but not fast enough to evade his foot as it makes contact with the center of her stomach.

The breath leaves my body in the same huff that it does her's; my hand clenches, and beneath my fingers I feel ribs and a hummingbird pulse.

"Get on your feet, Tris," I mutter through gritted teeth. She pushes herself up clumsily, and Peter's hand darts out to fist in her hair. I can't even see his punch through my red-clouded vision, but I hear the crack of her nose breaking. He pushes her back and she falls, bouncing against the concrete floor. And then she's just laying there. Her head moves to follow Peter as he circles her, but it's a slow and sluggish movement. She's so dizzy she can't see. With a gagged cough, she drags herself back to her feet, but Peter's foot collides with her ribs, and she's back down again.

_Ribs and stomach and pulse and skin and eyes and breath—_my mind is a whirlwind of completely useless and fragmented thoughts. I shake my head to clear it.

"Get on your feet," I say again, each word bitten, measured, enunciated.

And she does, by some miracle. Her arm swings out, completely unexpected, but she's so weak that Peter doesn't even flinch. He smacks her, palm flat against the side of her face.

He is laughing.

White-hot rage shoots through me, and I have to go. I walk blindly towards the door and shove it, the smacking of skin on skin the only thing I can hear.

The cool air of the corridor soothes my flushed face, and the silence eases my mind. I lean my forehead against the rough stone wall and let my eyes fall closed and my breaths even.

Her scream is the single most terrifying sound I've ever heard in my life. It's impossibly high and inhuman, primal, brought forth from unconsciousness.

My bandaged hand hits the door open, and I don't even feel it.

The sight of her, on the ground, bloodied and bruised, makes me feel like I could pass out right along with her. She's clearly down for the count, but Peter's foot is still slamming into her side.

"Enough."

* * *

**A/N: Phew! What a chapter! This one was beastly. Definitely hard to write, but fun. It's a sucky place to end it, I know, but it was getting to where it was too long for just one chapter, so I had to split it. On the bright side, that means Chapter Five is more done than most are when I start them ;)**

**I'm terribly sorry about the long wait. School has started up again and kind of taken over my life. But I'm still trudging along, all for you guys :)**

**Please review! **

**Jennifer**


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